What is Sown: The Houndmaster and the Healer
by Morninglight
Summary: Sinead Cousland and Teagan Guerrin are two very different people: their families are on opposite sides of the political fence while she is a Chantry-trained physician and he the Houndmaster, overseer of Ferelden's spies. Commanded to marry, but by no means opposed to it, events will force them to re-examine their loyalties and what they hold dear.


Note: Stand-alone for 'Tis All A Game with a bit of romance-book level smut. This story _can_ be read alone, but it helps to have at least read What Is Sown to understand some of the background. This crosses over into the general time of the Origins. I'm also importing some general medieval RPG stuff to explain things like craft guilds. I'm also ripping off a lot of Irish and Scottish culture for Ferelden because… Teagan! In a kilt!

…

Rainesferre, First Day 9:30

Sinead felt naked without the four layers of robes but the time had come for her to leave the Chantry. Rumblings of Blight from the south and turmoil in the north drove her out of the comfortable existence she'd led as a lay sister, dividing her allegiances between the family that considered her bad luck and the people who would no doubt need her physician skills. She looked longingly over her shoulder at the warm rose granite exterior of Rainesferre's little Chantry, the golden light of several lamps and the Presence Hearth spilling out into the cold grey light of a winter morn, then resolutely turned away. Her path meandered elsewhere, though north or south she could not say.

Revered Mother Patience had given her garments given in charity and thriftily cut down to suit her slender frame, allowing her to keep the neat black boots from her Chantry robes. Undyed wool and linen in the form of a heavy cloak and matching skirt, high-necked kirtle and long sleeveless overgown would allow Sinead to blend in as she had no desire to travel under the burden of her own name. Her first name was not uncommon in the north, but her surname would bring nothing but trouble in her wake.

Despite it being an hour past sunrise, people were already out and about, knocking on doors to continue the ancient ritual begun of necessity to determine whether people had survived the depths of winter. She managed to smile at Hamish and his husband Eoin as they waved to her on their way to the latter's parents' cottage on the outskirts of the village; several other villagers nodded in her direction, one or two surprised glances cast her way. It had been an even bet amongst the people of Rainesferre on whether she would marry or take vows.

One of the village elders, a dark-eyed woman named Catriona, wandered over with one of her many strapping grandsons in tow. "Don't embarrass me, Diarmid," she chided the hapless youth softly.

"I don't wannna get married," he groused.

"She's pretty and a physician-"

"Gran!" Diarmid looked helplessly at Sinead. "Please tell her you don't want to get married."

"Elder Catriona, I may have to travel back to my family up north or south to tend the wounded of this Blight," Sinead said politely but bluntly as the crone turned her way. "I… cannot wed at this time."

Catriona sighed. "Maker, girl, you're one of us. Bugger those northern sods who drove you into the Chantry and get yourself a decent lad from around here."

Sinead regarded Diarmid, known for his exploits with the ladies from here to Redcliffe, wryly. "And you're offering _him_?"

"A Redcliffe cad is worth two Highever lads any day of the week," the elder said staunchly as Diarmid rolled his eyes.

"I'll be likely marrying an Amaranthine or Denerim man, whichever suits my family's needs, if I go north," Sinead admitted with a sigh. It galled her to think of either Vaughn or Thom as potential husbands, but the Blight in the south meant that she had to set aside her personal desires for the greater good of Ferelden.

"You never said you were noble!" Catriona exclaimed, sounding almost betrayed.

"It… wasn't relevant in the Chantry," Sinead replied sadly. "If I had my druthers, I'd be… well, not thinking about either of them."

"Bann Teagan's single," one of the other village women pointed out.

_I know,_ the young woman thought mournfully. If Thom and Vaughn were the same kind of man as the gallant, kind Bann of Rainesferre, she'd run so fast to the altar there would be fire in her tracks. But Fergus had outright said her parents were on thin ice with the southron lords and so they wanted to shore up their alliances in the north – as they always did. Privately, she thought they ought to focus a bit more on the south, especially since Redcliffe held the centre. The fact that Teagan was the most significant Bann in the central northern Bannorn and brother to Arl Eamon, King Cailan's uncle, happened to be a bonus so far as she was concerned. Pity her family didn't think that way.

"It's complicated, Moriah," she temporised, rubbing her nose with a sigh. Because she wanted to leave discreetly, she would need to earn some coin or find a way to barter medical knowledge for a trip wherever she decided to go-

"Lady Sinead's family has particular plans for her," Bann Teagan himself confirmed, a strange tone to his urbane tenor. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear it was regret, maybe even a bit of anger.

"Only if I don't go south to help those fighting the Blight," she retorted, voice tarter than it ought to be. The Bann of Rainesferre had gotten the knowledge of the Summer Fever out of her and reported it to Anora's supporters in Denerim. Both of them had been doing their duty to Ferelden but the enemies of the Couslands would use it against them unless she could gain them another vote in the Landsmeet-

Teagan's eyes, blue as the sky reflected in Lake Calenhad in a summer's day, widened. "Healers are needed down there, Lady Sinead, but you would be in danger from the darkspawn," he said warningly. "And I have heard stories about how the Grey Wardens show no mercy to women about to fall into the hands of the monsters."

"When the Blight comes north, I'll be in danger anyway," she countered. "I cannot stand by and let innocents suffer!"

Several villagers began to mutter and Teagan looked around. "This is no place to have this discussion," the Bann said firmly. "Let us retire to the manor and continue it, Lady Sinead."

For some reason, his attitude rankled her. He no doubt meant well. And he was probably right. And he was a good man. But to be treated like a foolish child when she was two years a woman-

Yet he was correct. Sinead nodded curtly and marched up the hill towards the small, comfortable manor which overlooked the little valley of Rainesferre. Years of working as a lay sister had given her strong legs and plenty of endurance; idly she wondered if Habren Bryland was still weak as a newborn kitten…

She'd never been inside Teagan's manor before. It was more like a slightly fancier freeholder's home, polished golden oak and off-white plaster offset by thick, colourful tapestries, the furniture old but sturdy, a fire burning in the main hall – which appeared to double as the kitchen, because a hob holding a teakettle and a small roasting spit were hung over the hearth and a tiny oven lurked right next to it while his few servants prepared the First Day meal. "It's simpler to get the inn to provide larger meals," the Bann observed as he removed his long russet leather coat to hang on a cloak-rack. "I spend most Feast Days at Castle Redcliffe, anyway."

Sinead untied her cloak and hung it up, accidentally brushing Teagan's tanned hand with her own. It was soft and warm; he had almost as many calluses as she, though he had some odd ones on the back of his knuckles like he'd been punching hard surfaces for many years. The touch brought a blush to her cheeks and a thrill through her body. He was a handsome man and she'd been aware of it since she'd bound his broken arm at sixteen.

"I… see," she managed to answer, oddly breathless. She'd paid attention to Mother Patience's pragmatic lessons on sex and childbearing, wondering now and then what desire would feel like – and knowing that whenever she thought of being kissed, Teagan's name was at the top of the list.

"Would you like some tea?" Teagan offered, gesturing to the kettle on the hob and a tea set of alien make on the small table near the fire. "There are things I should make you aware of before you decide what to do."

"I don't want to marry Vaughn or Thom and I think you'd make a better alliance than either of them besides!" Sinead blurted, brain overriding her control over her tongue. Then she blushed red as a prayer candle as the import of what she just confessed sunk in, the Bann's breath catching in his throat. Even the three servants, all elves, fell silent and stared at her while they continued their work mechanically. If Teagan's staff were anything like Nan's kitchen elves, the entirety of Rainesferre would know by nightfall and news would reach Highever and Redcliffe in three days.

"As do I," Teagan agreed tersely. "Neither Thom nor Vaughn is fit for such a woman as you with your gentle heart… And your father needs to be tied to the throne, not left to stew and make his own alliances."

Sinead looked beseechingly at him. "How much trouble is my family in, Bann Teagan?"

"Your father concealing the effects of the Summer Fever has done him no favours," Teagan said bluntly. "Cailan might be persuaded to… understand. He forgives easily. But the Mac Tirs are… another matter."

"He'd better bloody well forgive him, seeing as he's used my family to contact Celene behind the Teyrn's back," Sinead confessed bitterly. "Your brother's been at the King to get a new wife and…"

Teagan went very still, eyes narrowing dangerously, and Sinead suddenly shuddered. She wasn't sure why she'd revealed that bit of information – and this hard-eyed man was a different creature to the gentle Bann she knew so well. "I _wondered_ how he was so certain of an alliance," he breathed, thumbing the golden ring with its snarling mabari on his hand. "Damn _it_. Loghain's paranoia will be higher than the Frostbacks."

He looked around at the silent elves. "If you reveal any of this conversation to anyone without my permission, it's treason," he snapped at them.

The sole female nodded in assent. "As you wish, Houndmaster."

Some of the tension ran out of the Bann. "Thank you," he said in a gentler tone. Then he turned back to Sinead, who was trembling slightly, watching the man who could probably condemn her family to death with a word fearfully.

"Your father has been on the sunny side of coveting the throne since Cailan ascended," he continued softly. "He has been very carefully hedging bets on both sides, obviously aware of Anora's infertility, and has been less than circumspect about it."

Teagan looked towards the fire with a grim expression. "I know he's been angling to force a new vote for King; Cailan's lack of interest in rulership beyond grand gestures and playing the hero has offended the north, Eamon and his friends are concerned about the amount of influence Anora has because she's common-born and fundamentally running the country, and Loghain will be infuriated if we actually make overtures to Orlais."

"We can't face a Blight on our own," she breathed.

"No, we cannot. Which is why I intend to be leading a mission to Kirkwall and Starkhaven to discuss potential alliances; I've managed to get Loghain to at least consider approaching the Free Marches." Teagan looked back at her, expression almost angry. "I… cannot allow you to either go to Highever or south to face the darkspawn, Sinead Cousland."

She bowed her head in helpless acquiescence, understanding that this had been his intention even before she'd blurted out her family's involvement in Cailan's clandestine correspondence. "Can't have the valuable milk cow wandering too far; she might get mounted by the wrong bull or wind up dead," she observed bitterly.

A stricken expression crossed Teagan's face, her barb hitting home. She sensed that he was both the kind Bann of Rainesferre and the harsh Houndmaster (and even she had heard of the spies of the King). "You are more than a cow, Sinead," he told her gently. "I doubt you believe me, but I don't like having to keep you close against your will."

She regarded him sorrowfully, her bitterness and anger running their course swiftly. "I wish I was just some Bann's daughter," she murmured.

"As do I," he confessed regretfully. "As do I."

…

Sinead Cousland burst into tears and Teagan damned whatever demon inspired the ambitions of men. The girl – _woman_ – was little more than a pawn in the ambitions of others, a prize to be coveted and won by whoever was strong enough to dare the wrath of Bryce Cousland. He'd watched her grow from gangly adolescent with a gentle touch to a woman of grace and healing. Hearing her blurted confession earlier had made him wonder if he could justify marrying someone half his age.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I am so sorry."

"Today's my birthday," she finally said, wiping the tears from her freckled cheeks. "I guess when they said a child born on First Day was unlucky, they meant they'd never have a bit of good fortune in their lives, not give bad luck to others."

_"You are not unlucky,"_ he told her fiercely. Damn Bryce and his superstitious nature!

"Does it matter if I am or aren't?" she retorted. "I'm the prisoner of circumstances either way."

Teagan's fists clenched. "You are only a prisoner if you wish to be, Lady Cousland," he said. "You can choose to make your own mark upon the world. Maker knows I could use someone who knows how the Chantry operates from the inside… and your skills as a physician would be quite useful."

"So what, I should poison your enemies?" she countered tartly. Her mood seemed to be swing between anger and sorrow.

"I thought that's what your sister-in-law was for," he responded, unable to hide the exasperated sarcasm in his voice. If Sinead had wanted to remain innocent, she should have stayed in the Chantry. But now she'd actively chosen to leave, she would need to become a little worldlier.

"So what am I? Hostage, prisoner, potential bride?"

"You are what you want to be in this, Lady Sinead." He paused and looked at her significantly. "I seem to recall you stating at the beginning of this conversation your preference for me over Thom and Vaughn."

Her cheeks went scarlet. It was a strange sight to see the proud, high-boned features of the Couslands softened by the fine oval face of Waking Sea, stranger still to see sun-kissed skin and hands callused by work, not weapons, on the highest-ranking unmarried maiden in the land. Sinead was medium height for a woman, a touch taller than Eleanor, and had a figure that was neither girlishly flat nor excessively curvaceous. Working in the gardens of the Chantry had burnished the Waking Sea's dark copper tresses with gold but the Cousland sapphire eyes stared at him with wary desire.

"Houndmaster or not, you're still the best option," she finally whispered huskily.

Teagan licked lips gone dry. "Hoping I'll die while you're young enough to enjoy widowhood?" he half-jested. Widows had a great deal more independence than innocent maidens, and he had the feeling it was _independence_ that Sinead truly craved.

She blinked in surprise. "I… really hadn't thought about that," she admitted.

He closed his eyes. _Maker forgive me. She is loved here, her character is sound and… it would be a good political match. The only one better would be to marry her to Alistair if he ever returns from Tevinter._

And if he married Sinead to Alistair, the Mac Tirs would consider it an act of war. But if _he_ married her, the _Couslands_ would consider it so.

"Could do a lot worse," one of his servants pointed out, having gotten over the warning he'd offered earlier. It had been for Sinead's benefit as he already knew his people were more discreet than the bedchamber of the Divine.

"They should put you in charge of domestic policy, Ilthrin," his wife Ladrann observed dryly. "If those two marry, half the northern lords would burst into flames and the other half would march to war."

"Pfft. Too many northerners as is," Ilthrin responded serenely.

"_I'm_ a northerner," Sinead said tartly.

"We forgave you for it a long time ago," Ladrann teased. She picked up the nug she'd been preparing and put it on the spit. "But we're serious. You're the first noblewoman Bann Teagan's looked at in… well… forever."

Teagan coughed in embarrassment. How had his servants managed to turn a tense moment into an awkward one? Doreth, the oldest of the trio and Ladrann's father, chuckled as he cut up root vegetables for roasting. "You need an elder to arrange marriages," he suggested. "Mind you, the year difference is a bit awkward, but Guerrins are usually hale into old age and there's something to be said for the fertility of youth, seeing as you've left it so long to have an heir, Bann Teagan."

"I thought I was more than a cow," Sinead finally said after getting over her shock at the elves' blunt speech.

_She's not used to it,_ he realised. Though the Couslands were said to be fair to their elven servants, they were still _servants_. Bryce was a decent man and a fair ruler, but he was very much aware of his place and duties as Teyrn – and expected everyone else to be equally conscious. And in the Chantry, Sinead would have been used to elves being very much subservient.

Isolde and Eamon didn't mistreat their servants but they made it clear elves were to mind their manners and place around them. Teagan, whose agents spanned three of the four races of Thedas (he never dealt with Tal-Vashoth unless it was through intermediaries as they were too alien to him), treated his staff as the advisers and friends they were.

Doreth, Ilthrin and Ladrann were perceptive enough to understand she wouldn't mean any insult but would expect him to correct her after the first mistake. "You were the first one to speak of marriage," he reminded her mercilessly. "The elves have their marriages arranged by the hahren of their alienage."

"And he or she gives proper thought to each couple's skills and personality," Ilthrin pointed out. "You nobles throw your children together without regard for how they stick just because it might get you some political advantage."

Sinead swallowed. "You have no idea, ser."

Teagan shook his head, wondering how the decision to try and keep Sinead out of the coming turmoil had become… this. "I intend to take you with me to Kirkwall and Starkhaven," he said softly. "Your brother and father will go to war with the darkspawn soon enough and it may be best to keep a Cousland heir out of the way for the sake of the land."

"Oh, a young woman travelling alone with an older nobleman. _That_ will do _wonders_ to protect my reputation," Sinead observed with surprising sarcasm. The former lay sister was proving to be more stubborn – and mercurial – than he expected.

"Did they give you lessons in sarcasm at the Chantry?" Teagan asked exasperatedly.

"No, I picked that up myself." The young woman closed her eyes, an expression of great strain crossing her lovely features. "Why does this have to be so complicated?"

"Welcome to the wonderful world of politics," he responded dryly.

"I should have stayed in the Chantry."

"Probably, yes. You could go back and tell Revered Mother Patience you want to take vows, if that's what you truly want-"

Sinead's gaze was suddenly old and sad. "I suspect the Grand Cleric's behind her reluctance to let me take vows. And I assume that my father and sundry other parties, including you, were pushing the Grand Cleric."

"…Yes." Teagan had to be candid about it. "But if it is what you truly want…"

"I… honestly don't know what I want." She looked at him pleadingly. "May I please have some time alone? I need to think."

"Take as long as you need, Lady Sinead. I will be leaving in three weeks or so, so I'm sure that's plenty of time." Teagan eyed the tea kettle wryly. "There's some rosehip tea in there if you'd like it."

Her eyes brightened. "It's my favourite, so don't mind if I do."

_I know,_ he thought wryly. He wasn't _quite_ sure what he was going to do about this gentle healer with her surprisingly sarcastic sense of humour and flashes of steel beneath the Chantry-taught reserve. But he knew he would need to woo her into a position of… neutrality, he supposed… for the good of Ferelden.

…

Royal Palace, Denerim, Wintersend 9:30

It had been a year to the day of the announcement of the Blight and only now was the King turning his attention to engaging them in the south.

Sinead was grateful for the high neck of her gown as Cailan's eyes fell down the front of every woman he met, from Healer Wynne (who'd been delighted to see her) to Alfstanna of Waking Sea, who'd ridden in from Highever with a troubled expression. Oddly enough he seemed oblivious to her or any of the married women – including his own wife! – until she realised that his sense of chivalry precluded sleeping with another man's spouse… and that everyone considered her betrothed to Teagan.

Anora, stately in her simple gown of lavender and blue Orlesian silk, smiled encouragingly at her as they sat together at the high table. The Queen hadn't changed much from her youth aside from the odd line around her large blue eyes and brittleness to her smiles, but she seemed kindly disposed to Sinead. "I am given to understand you are something of an apothecary," she noted, trying to make conversation.

"Something of an apothecary? I'm a full physician," Sinead corrected her, wondering how anyone could characterise a member of Andraste the Healer who'd been on the verge of taking vows as nothing less than fully competent.

"Truly? That is… astonishing, given that you are just over eighteen," Anora observed.

"And I went straight to the Order when I was ten. It takes about eight years to become a Master Physician and I was getting ready to take vows when the Maker found another path for me," she answered with a tight smile. "Most noblewomen my age, Your Majesty, are concerned more with learning how to manage a household and not embarrass themselves at Court. I had only to focus upon the arts of the healer and the priestess."

"A point well made," Anora conceded. "I applied myself to learning how to rule and was running Gwaren for my father by your age, so I should not have been surprised that you showed such dedication."

"Thank you," Sinead responded, managing to avoid any hint of sarcasm. Spending her adolescence in the Chantry working with commoners had taught her that outside of the nobility, most people were handling adult responsibilities by fourteen and generally married by sixteen; in the middle class of the skilled trades, that age generally increased by two or so years, but most people in the Guilds (if they were ambitious) were practicing Journeymen or Masters by twenty or so. Sinead being a Master Physician (if she chose to get the recognition – and she would) by the age of eighteen was a _touch_ unusual – but only because she'd started her apprenticeship so young. Most physician apprentices were twelve or so but the Order of Andraste the Healer got their novices starting as soon as they entered the door.

An awkward silence descended on the high table as the ladies – Anora, Sinead and a bevy of noble wives – turned their attention to watching the men prepare for the sword-dancing. It was considered a point of honour to have someone from your family participating in the traditional Wintersend performance; even Loghain Mac Tir and Rendon Howe were joining in. Fergus, of course, stood for the Couslands.

Of her family, only Fergus and Oriana had come, pleading the remnants of winter and Eleanor's recurring bouts of coughing sickness for the Teyrn and Teyrna's absence. With the political situation being what it was, Sinead didn't need to have Teagan's keen eye to see that the Court was… sceptical.

She and Fergus had barely any time to exchange more than brief greetings as Anora had latched onto her like a limpet on a sea-rock and dragged her around, introducing her to everyone of note. Habren Bryland had grown into an attractive if overdressed young woman, still prone to arrogance and cutting remarks to her lesser; Alfstanna had grown into a warrior with the death of her father and brother at the hands of Avvar raiders. Oriana d'Antiva had lost much of her accent but still remained the soft-spoken, outwardly demure sister-in-law Sinead vaguely recalled. The Antivan woman had given Teagan one appraising glance and turned to her, saying approvingly, "You may keep him."

Most of the men gathering in the centre of the Great Hall were dressed in kilts and plaids, the traditional garments of the Fereldan nobility before the coming of the Orlesians. Regrettably, most of them were men who had no business wearing garments which left their chests and legs bare, as it was customary to sword-dance shirtless. Of the older men, it was Loghain who stood out in his tartan of black and grey shot with threads of yellow, showing that he might be nearing sixty but he still kept himself in good shape. Fergus had grown even bulkier since the last time Sinead had seen him sword-dance, the Cousland tartan of navy-blue, white and threads of true gold suiting his dark Alamarri colouring.

But it was Teagan who drew Sinead's eye. Most of the other men were broad-shouldered and thick-legged, the marks of warriors who fought with sword and shield on a habitual basis, or possessed the wiry strength of the Howe men or Vaughn Uriens, known for their… unorthodox methods of combat. Having spent the past two years in Rainesferre, she knew that the deep warm tone of his skin came from swimming in Lake Calenhad daily and that his relatively lithe musculature was from the 'martial arts' training he put himself through in place of practicing with a sword and shield. He was, of course, competent in those weapons but he preferred hand to hand combat. His auburn-brown hair and goatee complimented the blue, brick-red and white of Redcliffe's tartan rather… nicely.

For the past month, he had been open – as much as his duties as Houndmaster permitted – about the political situation in Ferelden and beyond. She'd been given the freedom of Rainesferre and Sinead knew that if she truly wanted to rejoin the Chantry – as she swore she'd do every day – he'd help her travel to a nice, warm safe one in the north or even the Free Marches. But despite being frank and honest with her, Teagan was insisting on not allowing her to either rejoin her family in Highever or go south to join the King's army as a medic.

_"I will not lie. In part you are a hostage to keep your father on our side,"_ the Bann had admitted starkly. _"Cailan is… far from perfect. And if it were not a Blight, I would allow the Landsmeet to decide on Bryce's validity as King. But there are darkspawn in the south and we must stand united."_

Sinead couldn't even fault his political reasoning. Even Fergus was worried about how much of Bryce's ambition was genuine concern for Ferelden. No one doubted the Teyrn of Highever's abilities as a leader and ruler or Fergus' suitability as heir. What rankled the rest of the Bannorn was the Couslands' emphasis on the north, the Old Heartland of Ferelden, and his refusal to court any of the southron lords aside from his old friend Leonas Bryland, who was firmly on his side.

Arl Eamon had begun openly pushing for Cailan to look elsewhere for a bride, citing Anora's 'infertility', but the King had – publicly – refused to do so. Only Teagan's intervention had stopped the men from arguing in the Landsmeet or from Loghain declaring war on Redcliffe.

Cailan gestured to the minstrels, who struck up a dancing tune on their bodhrans and fiddles, and placed his feet in between the four crossed swords. Dressed in the red, saffron and brown of the Theirins, he looked like the very epitome of the ancient Fereldan kings with his long golden hair and bright grin; Sinead only hoped that he was still sober enough to complete his dance and not knock or step on any of the swords. Her father, whose superstitious nature she knew only too well, would see it as an ill omen and a portent of the disasters of letting this Theirin rule.

The four-sword dance was deceptively simple, relying on speed and agility; it was a dance the Guerrins and the Howes excelled at whereas the heavier Couslands preferred the two-sword dance. Whatever faults Cailan possessed, it was known he was fast and agile for his bulk – and he demonstrated it in abundance, managing to finish the dance with competence, if not flair. Sinead sighed in relief as the King, sweaty and flushed with success, rejoined Anora at the high table. The Queen flashed a quick glance beneath an arched eyebrow but said nothing.

By tradition, Fergus was next, much to Loghain's scowling displeasure. But the Bluestone Boulder treaty had been emphatic on the order of precedence and no matter how high another family rose, the Couslands _always_ came second. Even if her brother was worried about her father's ambition, he would not relinquish precedence.

Fergus chose to pick up two of the swords and perform the two-sword dance with both weapons in his hand, combining the two- dirk dance with it. Like her brother, it was quietly competent, executed perfectly but not flamboyantly. When it was done, he bowed to the King with both swords crossed before him – the ancient obeisance of the Teyrns of Highever, Sciath na Thuaidh, the Shield of the North – before returning the blades to their place and sitting up at the high table.

Loghain was third, granite made flesh with his pale skin and craggy features always locked in a forbidding expression, even when he danced. His performance was precise, methodical and deliberate, much like his method of making war. The joy in Loghain's life had died with Maric and now he grimly endured until the last threat to Ferelden was destroyed or his old, scarred body gave out.

Rendon Howe, Leonas Bryland and Arl Wulff followed in quick succession, completing the dances of the reigning Arls. The minstrels stopped their music for a brief rest and a tankard of ale as the Banns prepared themselves to go next; as uncle of the King, Teagan would go first, much to the glowering resentment of Vaughn Uriens.

Oriana fanned herself with a delicate implement of Antivan doeskin and lacquered metal with suspiciously sharpened points, smiling broadly at Fergus. "If the men and women of Antiva had seen you dance, _mi amor_, I would have had to ask my brother to depopulate the country."

Fergus grinned at his wife, brushing back sweaty dark hair. "Good thing I didn't dance there then, love. It would be sort of awkward for trade."

Sinead poured herself water, having requested a jug and goblet earlier as she had no taste for spirits because of her time spent in the Chantry. Truth be told, the richness of the feast here when people were struggling in the south against the darkspawn troubled her. Intellectually she knew that the food here would make little difference, but the spartan life of a novice and the virtues instilled therein made her uncomfortable around luxury. It was one thing to be at Teagan's manor or even her father's castle, where everything was solid, old and homely, but Denerim's decadence was quite another.

Anora's smile at the jest was a little tense. Oriana wore a heavy red velvet dress, still unaccustomed to the cold of Ferelden, and she had twined ribbons through the twisted chestnut-brown locks that hung around her lovely face. Sinead could see how the elegant Antivan could unsettle anyone; even she wasn't quite sure how to approach this sister-in-law she barely knew.

"It's good to see you out of the Chantry, little sister," Fergus continued, smiling at Sinead as he helped himself to a tankard of ale. "And taking an interest in politics."

"Lady Sinead will be accompanying Bann Teagan to Kirkwall and Starkhaven," Anora informed him. "Her piety should make a good impression upon the notables of both cities."

Oriana's eyebrow rose as a startled Fergus took a large mouthful of ale. "Coming from Antiva and a family that deals extensively with the Dumars and Vaels, an unmarried maiden of good birth accompanying an equally unwed nobleman will make an entirely different impression to the one you intend," she pointed out pragmatically.

"That is true," Anora conceded. Cailan was half-listening, being more interested in the heaping plate of rare beef in front of him, and Teagan had paused in making sure his knee-high boots were laced tightly to blatantly eavesdrop. "However, it has come to the Crown's attention that the ties between us and the Shield of the North need to be closer."

Sinead blinked as the implications of Anora's statement sunk in; Rendon Howe was scowling and Loghain didn't look much happier, but neither man raised a protest.

"And there are no close connections to the Crown but for the Guerrin men – and of those two, one is but a boy," Oriana agreed, smiling slightly. "I think I understand your – I mean, the _Crown's_ meaning, Queen Anora."

"Contrary to popular opinion, I do sometimes have input in the political decisions around here," Cailan observed as he speared a slice of beef with his sgian-dubh. "Uncle Teagan has evaded matrimony for far too long. And the Couslands need to be more involved with the south of Ferelden."

Fergus looked ready to say something and Sinead wasn't sure what would come out of her mouth if she opened it, but Oriana placed her hand on her husband's arm and squeezed it gently. Teagan himself glanced between the Antivan, the Queen and Sinead herself with an unreadable expression on his handsome face.

"And with what I've observed, the match would not be distasteful to either," Anora said with a slight smile. "I know your father has spoken to both the Arls of Amaranthine and Denerim concerning a match between your sister and one of their sons, but Thomas Howe is ineligible due to the Chantry's laws on consanguinity – being a double second-cousin – and Vaughn Uriens Kendall is of a temperament ill-suited to Lady Sinead's sheltered upbringing."

"Vaughn Uriens is a rapist. The only reason he hasn't hung is because he confines his attentions to the elves, which says volumes about the state of justice in Denerim," Sinead snapped.

Anora winced at her bluntness as Urien Kendalls, the Arl of Denerim, glared at her. "I think we can agree that a marriage between Highever and Denerim would be… incompatible," the Queen finally said diplomatically.

"Will my father, the Teyrn of Highever, get a say in the matter?" Fergus asked formally.

"Your father, if I may be so blunt, is all but salivating over the Mabari Throne because I am the last of the Theirins," Cailan responded before his wife could. "The Landsmeet decided they would prefer a Theirin King."

"Only out of respect for your father," Fergus pointed out, looking a little nettled.

"Probably," Cailan agreed ruefully. He was self-aware and honest concerning his faults, even if it would be better if he shut up. "But I like to think Anora and I aren't doing so badly as rulers to require a formal change of government."

Teagan exchanged a look with Sinead, who shrugged helplessly, and stepped forward. "We have the numbers for a Landsmeet," he announced. "It may be no bad idea to clarify the order of precedence formally as we are dealing with a Blight… and people die during those. Even Kings."

Anora took a deep quick breath. "Are you implying that we should recognise the Couslands as the formal heirs to the Mabari Throne?"

"In the event of the Theirin line dying out, yes," Teagan answered.

"That the Guerrins would stand third in line would be… obvious," Rendon Howe pointed out silkily.

Teagan turned around and received a deliberate nod from his brother Eamon. "We will exchange places in the order of precedence with the Mac Tirs," he replied, facing the high table once more. "And should the worst happen to Cailan – forgive me, nephew, I say it to be open, not to wish ill luck on you – Anora should be recognised as Chancellor. That she is an able administrator and diplomat goes without saying."

Oriana murmured something to Fergus in Antivan, whose lips pursed. As the tanist, the heir of Highever, he had the authority to make such an agreement with the Landsmeet. From what Sinead recalled of her father, he would eagerly agree, keeping both his honour and satisfying his ambition at once. She sighed again in relief. It seemed like a neat solution to the problem of the succession.

"Done," her brother finally said.

Teagan looked around the gathered Banns. Technically this should have been done in the Landsmeet Chamber, but wherever the lords of Ferelden and their heirs gathered, a Landsmeet could be held. "What says the Landsmeet?"

The western and southern Banns, led by Wulff and Bryland, agreed enthusiastically; the central Bannorn, led by Eamon, sounded more relieved; the northern nobility were ambivalent in their approval; and the eastern Banns were reluctant but agreed regardless.

"Then it is decided," Teagan announced, his own voice relieved. "When the Theirin lineage dies out, the Couslands shall inherit the Mabari Throne, and after them the Mac Tirs. Beyond that is for the Landsmeet to decide."

Cailan took a deep draught of his ale before speaking. "I do rather hope you'll let me die of natural causes first," the King quipped dryly.

"With the way you drink and wench, Cailan, the Couslands won't have to wait overlong," Loghain observed sarcastically.

"Thank the Maker," muttered one of the northern Banns.

The King chose to ignore both of them, instead looking at his uncle. "Well, now that's settled – and I also assume your betrothal to the Lady Sinead, who's a rather pretty bit even if she looks at me like Revered Mother Ursula during confession – I do believe we have a sword-dance to finish?"

Teagan's nostrils flared slightly, but whether it was from anger or frustration with the boyish King, Sinead couldn't tell. For her part, she was of mixed opinion concerning the Crown's decision: she was bartered away exactly like a cow, which she had always feared… yet it was to Teagan, the one man who had always believed she wasn't bad luck to herself or anyone else.

Anora leaned over as the minstrels struck up the dancing tune again and Teagan moved into place. "It was either him or my father," she murmured sympathetically. "At least with Teagan, there will be pleasures in the duty if what rumours I've heard are true."

Sinead nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and turned to watch her betrothed dance.

…

Teagan was torn between wanting to throttle Cailan and embrace him for putting them on the spot like that. No doubt the Antivan woman and Anora cooked up the scheme between them, but no doubt it had been the King who decided when and where it would be put into play. At least the line of succession was now secured if something happened to both Cailan and Alistair.

He was concerned about not hearing from the royal bastard or the watcher he put on him since Antiva. Alistair Theirin and Nathaniel Howe were both trouble-prone and the idea of the duo – alongside a diverse group of rogues and apostates – wandering Thedas without direct supervision was… worrying. But whatever happened, it was out of his hands now.

The Bann of Rainesferre met his betrothed's eyes, making Sinead blush and look away. While no innocent – any novice of the Order of Andraste the Healer lost their naivety about human nature fairly quickly – she was still sheltered and untouched. No doubt she knew the mechanics and purpose of marriage, but being the dutiful girl she was, had probably never done much about pursuing practical experience.

_I could kill Cailan,_ he thought as he stepped around the four swords. _But I could also kiss him._

Sinead was a quick learner with a level head; though her noble manners were a bit lacking due to her years in the Chantry, she more than made up for it with innate grace and tact tempered by the Cousland sense of justice. That outburst concerning Vaughn Uriens was a rare one, albeit truthful; if only the man wasn't the only heir of Arl Kendalls…

He'd had to concoct that little succession solution on the fly. Eamon wasn't particularly ambitious, thank the Maker, and Loghain was likely to perish in the next few years; Bryce was hale but if Cailan survived long enough, he'd outlive the Teyrn and Fergus, who was competent and less hidebound than his father, could become King at worst. Maker help them if they lost Cailan, Bryce _and_ Fergus… Anora was strong, but he wasn't sure she possessed the military acumen to run a war without her father's support.

He forced such thoughts from his mind. It was time to dance, to show the lords and ladies of Ferelden that the Caisleán an Lárionad, the Castle of the Centre, was still the beating heart of the nation – regardless of what the north thought.

_So much lost to us because of the Orlesians. Even Maric didn't know the half of it,_ he thought regretfully as he allowed his body to take over. Years of repetitious dancing, shadow-boxing and calisthenics made something like the four-sword dance relatively easy, but he still needed to maintain a certain level of concentration. _And Cailan would rush into alliance while we are not in a position of strength…_

There was something there, a pattern as intricate as the tartan of his kilt and plaid. But with the eyes of Ferelden in general and his betrothed on him in particular, Teagan didn't have the luxury of pursuing it at the moment. He knew Sinead found him attractive; the girl had trouble hiding her expressions. But he wanted to awaken that desire, nurture it like a wildflower in a secluded place, and find some joy in the duty forced on them both. He owed her that much, for taking her freedom from here.

Sweat began to trickle down his back, absorbed by the soft wool of his kilt, woven from the fleece of sheep native to his bannorn. He recalled the subtle distaste in Sinead's eyes as she beheld the luxury of Denerim; the Couslands were not prone to extravagance, preferring subtle methods of flaunting their prosperity like the genuine gold threads in Fergus' kilt and plaid, and he only wore damask and brocade at Court. Perhaps he could bring back the fashion of the kilt as formal wear, though there were more than a few men he couldn't countenance being permitted to show their bare legs. It would be a subtle gesture, one that appealed to Ferelden pride and should appease Loghain and Rendon somewhat. Those two, despite being technically on opposite sides of the fence, had been rather cosy these past few months…

_Damn Maric for making me Houndmaster,_ he cursed inwardly as his attention wandered down the thorny path of politics _again._ He focused on Sinead, on the sun-kissed flush of her skin and the golden highlights in that long dark copper mane. She was lovely, even if Habren Bryland and friends were belittling her tanned skin and callused hands behind her back, and Anora had been right: the match would not be distasteful for him. He only had to make her feel the same.

Sinead's lips parted and her breath quickened; he danced for her, no one else. His conscience could berate him about marrying a woman half his age later. Tonight he would revel in being young enough for virility and old enough for experience. He was in the prime of his life, a man and not a boy.

At least she would not have one of those… _vile_… youths in Thom and Vaughn's set pawing at her. Teagan really needed to bring Nate home and find out who had succession rights to the Arling of Denerim-

_Houndmaster, shut up!_ He performed a split-kick that wasn't _quite_ traditional to force his mind back onto the dance, proud of the fact he was limber enough to pull it off. Judging by the stunned expressions at the high table, he'd shown a bit more than he ought to; tradition stated that men go without smallclothes beneath the kilt…

Sinead's eyes widened and she blushed again, a deep brick-red that made him think of the stone in Redcliffe. He cracked a grin in her direction and spun around twice before returning to the exact same position he'd begun the dance in, bowing as the music ended.

"Fergus, are you dressed like that beneath your skirt?" Oriana asked her husband as Teagan approached the high table.

"Of course," Fergus replied, shaking his head in awe. "It's traditional."

"You are never to dance like that. I will have to get Rennio to kill everyone who liked it."

"Might be a bit hard, love, seeing as he'd like the dance himself- _Ouch!_" Oriana had elbowed him in the side quite firmly.

"That will be a hard act to follow, Uncle," Cailan laughed as Teagan sat down – beside Sinead, who shied away a little even as her eyes looked down at his kilt. "Though rather nice to give your wife-to-be a looksee before you wed-"

"I hadn't intended _that_ bit," the Bann confessed, gratefully accepting the tankard of ale Fergus gave him and drinking deeply. "I got a bit carried away showing the youngsters how it's done."

"You certainly achieved _that_," Eamon chuckled. His brother had that subtle smugness of getting his own way, no doubt from the fact that wherever fate and the Blight took them, he would stand close to the throne. Teagan loved his brother, but the Arl of Redcliffe was a political animal through and through.

Sinead relaxed and shifted in her seat, thigh accidentally bumping his. "It was a good dance," she admitted huskily, blushing deeply yet again.

"Fergus, will your father be offended if we hurry the marriage up before they go to Kirkwall?" Cailan asked of the heir to Highever. "Because if we don't, your little sister's going to blush to death."

"Or they'll get an early start like Oriana and I," Fergus noted dryly, only to be elbowed again by his wife.

"Fergus!"

"May I please be excused?" Sinead suddenly asked. "I need some fresh air."

"Of course," Anora said kindly, giving her husband a glare that dared him to say otherwise. "There is a small balcony through those glass doors. It should give you some time to collect yourself."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," she breathed before rising, offering a quick curtsey, and fleeing for the doors on the other side of the room.

Teagan watched her leave, torn between wanting to go to her and take advantage of her arousal and giving her the space she craved. Chivalry won out – for now. But he _really_ liked the idea of wedding her before they travelled to Kirkwall. Married men were respected in the Free Marches, after all.

…

He'd been dancing for her. Oh Maker have mercy on her soul because she was hotter than Andraste's pyre.

Sinead took great gulps of still-cold night air, trying to cool down. Her high-necked woollen dress felt too scratchy and tight while long experience with watching Teagan swim in the lake told her she'd have soaked her smallclothes. If she were truly alone, she would indulge in the one thing permitted to everyone in the Maker's service; He demanded celibacy from His priestesses, not the suppression of their innate desires so long as it didn't consume them. But she feared that her desire for Teagan would consume her as readily as a demon did a mage's soul.

Inside the Wintersend feast continued, Vaughn and his ilk dancing as the King got steadily drunker and made coarser jests. Sinead found herself quite in sympathy with Anora _and_ Loghain, understanding why so many of the Bannorn were concerned about Cailan as ruler. At least if he did anything stupid in the Blight, her father would ascend the throne quite neatly…

The doors cracked opened, allowing a blast of wild fiddle music to escape, and the scent of musk and cedar told her it was Teagan. "I am sorry if I discomfited you," he apologised softly. "I… got a little carried away."

"You've nothing to apologise for," she assured him, turning around. "Tonight has been such a blur…"

"Anora and Cailan surprised me too," he confessed. "I… always knew a marriage for us was on the cards, but I didn't expect them to act so swiftly or decisively."

Sinead twisted her fingers through the thick braid she wore her hair in. "You handled the situation well in there."

"Thank you, though _someone_ is bound to be displeased…" Teagan sighed. In the light that filtered through the doors, she could see the lines of strain on his face. Instinctively, she raised her hand to soothe them somehow, running her fingers over the prominent cheekbones and hooked nose, the sensuous lips parting under her touch before capturing her fingertips in the subtlest of kisses. His eyes widened, pupils dilating, and Sinead understood that he desired her very, very much.

"My father won't be happy I'll not wed where he wanted me to," she murmured, tracing the line of his jaw.

"Your father can walk to the Merdaine for all I care," he told her huskily.

She continued to touch him, memorising his features with her hand like a blind woman, heart pounding like the bodhran drums inside. This hungry restless yearning within forbade her from stopping, from stepping away to gather her wits and decorum; instead she moved closer to Teagan, wanting nothing more than the press of his flesh against hers.

_"A Stór,"_ he breathed, falling into the old language of the Alamarri that still lingered in everyday speech. "If you keep on doing that, we will need to call on the Chantry even sooner than planned."

Sinead shuddered, fingers reluctantly dropping from his shoulder. He was hard, like sun-warmed stone, and she wanted to follow the definition of his arm muscles. Out here, in the darkness, she felt bolder than she did around the coarse jests of the King and the teasing of her brother. Inside she would blush to death, she knew it.

Then Teagan was pushing her against the rough stone wall, near the glass doors, and pressing that warm-stone body of his against hers. She knew very well what the hardness beneath his kilt meant; she shifted slightly and felt it twitch as he swallowed a hungry groan. _"A Stór,"_ he husked again. _My darling…_

The restless yearning returned in force, driving Sinead to arch her back like a cat and move until there was no space between Teagan and her, the wall bracing her. "Please…" she whispered. Her virtue and propriety were the last things on her mind at the moment; this man was her betrothed, surely some leeway could be given?

Teagan's lips brushed over the crown of her head and slanted across the right temple, ale-scented breath stirring her hair. He wedged his hard thigh between her legs, her skirt bunching up indecently over her knees, but she didn't care as she ground herself against it restlessly. "How innocent are you?" he asked hoarsely.

Sinead gathered her wits enough to reply, "I've never lain with a man – or woman – but the Chantry only demanded celibacy from the novices, not utter denial of our natural desires so long as we didn't obsess over it."

He captured her lips gently; she could feel his body trembling. Then the kiss deepened, tongue sliding past her lips as that thigh between her legs rubbed maddeningly against her womanhood. "We're going to Highever first to wed," he murmured after breaking the kiss, but continuing to grind his thigh against her in a rhythm that startled a soft shameless moan from her. "Your father's been ignored in the betrothal process, so having the wedding there should at least appease his pride."

"And it's closer to Kirkwall from Highever than it is from Denerim," she managed to reply despite feeling a familiar tightening sensation in her womb.

Teagan's teeth flashed white in the darkness. "There's that too," he conceded. "But to be honest, I… can't wait for the wedding night. Maker forgive me."

He then kissed the join of neck and shoulder, sucking forcefully enough to leave a bruise. The sensation startled another moan out of Sinead, who was trying to be quiet because she _knew_ the jokes would start once they re-entered the Great Hall, and her fingers dug in as she began to rock harder against his thigh.

"Are you certain this match is… pleasing to you?" Teagan asked, leaning in a bit as she whimpered, trying to reach that peak without crying out loud enough for all of Denerim to hear.

Sinead was too busy closing her eyes as her climax hit her, nails digging into Teagan's shoulders. She moaned louder than she ever had before and buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the scent of musk and cedar and healthy sweat in the afterglow. His arousal twitched as she brushed against it, and wanting to return the favour, she slid her free hand down his flat stomach-

"No," he breathed, voice reluctant as he pulled her hand away. "I can… manage. Later."

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"What for? I am glad you do not find me distasteful." Teagan tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You didn't answer me before."

Still languid from pleasure, she smiled up at him. "It is."

…

Castle Cousland, Highever, Summerday 9:30

"I should be livid about this. But the fact you've managed to settle the line of succession rather neatly eases my mind considerably."

Bryce Cousland poured himself, Teagan and Eamon shots of blackberry brandy before turning to look over the fire in his private study. In Castle Redcliffe, the chapel and library were combined, but Bryce's father Fergal had been a noted scholar and transformed the old indoor salle into a formidable library. Teagan studied the man's still-broad shoulders and wondered if he was being diplomatic or truthful.

"We're neighbours," Eamon pointed out reasonably. The Arl of Redcliffe had acquiesced to being fourth in the line of succession because of Teagan's betrothal to Sinead; whether Cailan and Alistair lived or not, the Guerrins would be at the heart of power in Ferelden whilst the vigorous Couslands reigned. "And both of us rely on trade. We have more in common than you might think, Bryce."

"I'm still not happy. No offence to you, Teagan, but I'd hoped to marry Sinead to a lad her own age."

"The only 'lads' of an age close to Sinead should be disinherited and packed off to the Chantry or the Wardens," Eamon observed. "Even _Rendon_ is getting worried about Thomas and I've heard rumours of someone taking a collection plate around to have Vaughn murdered."

Teagan very well knew that it was more than a rumour: the alienage elves, having grown sick of Vaughn's depredations on them, were trying to get the cash together to hire an assassin. He was still debating whether to have a Hound handle it or chip in for an Antivan Crow himself.

"You repeat scurrilous rumours-"

"Your daughter was a novice in the Order of Andraste the Healer," Teagan interrupted, swirling his shotglass but not sipping from it. Wynne's stern warning – and his own improved health – made him leery of drinking overmuch. "From the little she told me, she has tended the victims of both men."

Bryce's jaw set stubbornly. "I had to pay honour-price to both Rendon and Urien Kendalls because of Sinead's comments at the feast. There is a time and a place to handle such things, and the Wintersend feast was neither."

"Maker's breath, man, you're second in line to the Mabari Throne and I've given you generous concessions on the overland trade with the dwarves. The Couslands are closer to the heart of power than they have been since the time of Arland!" Eamon downed his shot of brandy in one swift swallow. "What is the problem?"

"I was forced to break oath to trusted friends because of the Crown's decision," Bryce immediately answered, turning away from the fire. "A northman's word is his bond."

"Howe can get over it. Your two families are too damned interbred anyways." Eamon, slightly tipsy and very exasperated with the Teyrn of Highever, dispensed with tact. "Besides, didn't Anora and Oriana cook up the scheme?"

Teagan shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. "What's done is done. Teyrn Cousland, I consider it an honour and a privilege to marry Sinead and I intend to do my best to make her happy."

"You kept her in Rainesferre for a month after she left the Chantry-"

"Because she was going to volunteer for the King's army at Ostagar!" Teagan interrupted, voice sharpening. He was glad that the other reason for keeping Sinead close – her potential marriage to one of the northern lords – was kept secret from Bryce. The man had a lot of influence with the northern lords and friends in the south and west.

Bryce's famous blue eyes – the same shade as Sinead's – widened. "She has no skill at war."

"But she _is_ a Master Physician," Teagan pointed out. "Cailan has appealed to the Guild to send their best. And having been tended by Sinead, she is one of the best. The Army would have snapped her up like a mabari eating cheese."

Cousland sighed and the fight went out of his big frame. "Sinead has driven me to distraction since birth," he observed. "She's bad luck. Another northman would know how to counter it but you southroners don't. I love her, but she was born at a cursed time and that will follow her until the end of her days."

It took every bit of diplomacy ever learned as Houndmaster for Teagan to avoid calling his soon-to-be father-in-law an idiot. "The Guerrins are known for their luck," he instead said lightly. "I will be honoured to call you my father-in-law."

Someone knocked on the door. "Bryce, are you ready? We need to get the ceremony done with before Fergus leaves for Ostagar!" Eleanor chided through the door.

"We're on our way," Bryce replied. He then looked to Teagan. "I hope you're right, because her luck is your problem now."

Then and there the Bann of Rainesferre decided that he wouldn't be visiting Highever too often. Sinead had lived in Rainesferre for two years and nothing had gone wrong beyond the usual. All because of when she was born, her father superstitiously believed she was unlucky, and passed that belief onto her.

"It is indeed," was all he said before turning to exit the study.

Eamon joined him, trying to match Teagan's brisk strides. "I sincerely hope that other boy lives and returns to Ferelden," he murmured, "because if that man becomes King-"

"It's in the Maker's hands now," Teagan responded, rolling his shoulders to ease the tightness in them. But he certainly agreed with his brother, for Cailan was almost certainly infertile himself, and that made Alistair – and Maric if he still lived – the last of the Theirins. At least if worst came to worst, Fergus was a steady, more open-minded man than his father.

The Couslands' chapel was clear on the other side of the castle and the assembled notables – Cailan and Rendon Howe plus a smattering of Highever Banns – filled the generous-sized room, packed to the rafters with religious books, to the brim. The Guerrin brothers marched through the crowd to reach the pulpit, where the plain-faced Revered Mother who served as chaplain to Sinead's family waited with a smile. "Welcome, Bann Teagan," Mallol said amusedly. "Will I need to lock the door?"

"Is my reputation as a bachelor that bad?" Teagan asked with some surprise.

"In some quarters," the cleric responded with a smirk. "Ready?"

"Probably not. But you won't delay on my account, will you?" Teagan adjusted his formal kilt and plaid of Redcliffe tartan, the sporran and even the ceremonial (but still functional) dagger on the wide leather belt. This time around he wore a fine linen shirt and smallclothes… just in case.

"Of course not." The Revered Mother gestured to the resident minstrel, who began to play the bridal march to inform the Cousland menfolk to lead Sinead in. Cailan and Eamon clustered around him as supporters while the Cousland women faced them across the aisle, Eleanor biting her lip and Oriana smugly pleased.

The door opened and the trio entered, Fergus leading with the Cousland Sword in hand while Bryce had the Shield of Highever on one arm and Sinead on the other. She had eschewed the rich velvets and ornate brocades of Orlais and Antiva preferred by noble brides for a high-necked gown of fine Cousland blue linen and a women's plaid of Redcliffe tartan, her dark copper hair falling in a ribboned braid to mid-back. It was telling that she wore no heirloom jewellery, both of her natural modesty and the attitude of her family; but perhaps Oriana held possession of all the ancestral Cousland adornments as Sinead had only recently left the Chantry.

"You lucky bastard," Cailan murmured. Even with the freckles and tan which would likely never fade with her love of gardening, Sinead was the most beautiful woman in the room. And maybe Teagan was just biased.

"Tell me you have the bride-gift ready," Teagan muttered to his nephew.

"Of course I do." The King grinned. "Somewhere."

"Now is not the time to joke, Cailan!"

The King sighed dramatically and rummaged through his sporran to produce both the wedding ring and an old-style Alamarri torc of red-gold. "Queen Mairyn's torc," the golden-haired young man replied. "It seemed… appropriate."

"It is. Thank you, Cailan."

Sinead finally reached them, her father and brother breaking off to stand next to their wives, and she turned to face him. Teagan looked into those down-tilted sapphire eyes and smiled, an expression she hesitantly matched. They would leave for Kirkwall on the morrow to plead Ferelden's case for alliance with the Viscount and then go beyond to Starkhaven to do the same with the royal Vaels.

_"A Stór,"_ he whispered and the smile grew.

The ceremony was far briefer than Anora and Cailan's as there was much to do, but all the customs were observed. For groom-gift Teagan received a silverite medallion and his wedding ring was a simple gold band forged by an elven smith named Nelaros just before he'd gone to his own wedding in Denerim. Sinead received the torc, which fit her perfectly, and her ring was a smaller version of Teagan's. They exchanged vows – love, honour and fidelity – and everyone cheered when they dutifully kissed. It was all Teagan could do to keep it safe for Oren, Sinead's nephew, to observe when she tasted of berries.

Bryce, of course, threw a feast laden with the delicacies that made Highever famous: its blue cheese, the seafood that grandees as far as Ostwick paid high prices for, and the prime beef from its lush green lands. Cailan drank copiously and made coarse jests, no doubt enjoying Sinead's Chantry-reared embarrassment; Rendon Howe picked at his meal and glowered at everyone darkly, but he did that every time someone wealthier than he threw a party; and Eamon sampled the Couslands' wine cellar a little too copiously for Teagan's comfort. Perhaps his brother felt the need to kick over the traces with Isolde and Connor back in Redcliffe; Teagan suspected his brother would wind up in bed with one of the maids tonight, though that was none of his business.

Finally, _finally_, they were permitted to leave, escorted to the guest chamber which had been decorated with garlands and ancient tokens of fertility. In Ferelden they didn't bother with that nonsense of checking the wedding bed sheets for blood, for if a woman was a maid or not it was her own business. A good thing too or Habren Bryland would _never_ wed.

Teagan shut the door in Cailan's face, uncaring of how rude it was, and sagged against it with a sigh of relief. "Thank the Maker," he observed as his nephew took the hint and wandered off, bawling a bawdy wedding song hideously off-key. He idly recalled that Alistair had a fine tenor…

Sinead's back was to him, the movement of her hands indicating she was unfastening her plaid. He walked over to her and quite firmly caught her wrists. "Let me do that," he husked.

"I'm scared," she whispered. "There's… an edge, a bite to the air here. Something-"

"Ssh. It's alright," he assured her. Even though she'd been in the Chantry for eight years, Sinead still held some of the northern superstition. "We have a few hours before we – and Fergus – must depart."

With that he gently undid the heavy cloak-brooch with its dagger-like point that kept her plaid about her body and let the soft woollen fabric fall to the floor, tossing the copper-and-gold brooch on it like it was trash. "I would have thought you'd be wearing some of the ancestral jewels," he confessed.

She looked up at him wryly. "I _was_. That brooch belonged to Elethea Cousland."

"Oops." It was interesting that she was wearing the torc that belonged to Calenhad's abandoned Queen and the brooch of the woman who'd submitted to the Silver Knight.

"It was the only thing I wanted. I don't like jewels." Her voice was soft, assuring him that no insult was meant. Teagan decided not to mention his little chat with her father.

_Bad luck my arse,_ he thought as his fingers moved to unbind her braid. It matched Mairyn's torc in colour and the tan of her skin lent her warmth that the cold pale beauties of the Court lacked.

From her braid, his hands followed the lines of her neck and shoulders until he reached the pearl buttons which kept her gown shut. Each one undone revealed the swell of breast beneath a modest linen shift that he untied impatiently, callused fingers kneading the fair skin gently. "I want you to always wear that torc," he commanded.

"As my husband wishes," she responded, a smile in her voice.

Teagan regretted he didn't have the entire night but consoled himself with the fact he'd have a few days on the ship to Kirkwall. Sinead's dress was easy enough to remove, the shift following, and only when she was naked did he turn her around to face him.

"Maker's breath but you are lovely," he breathed. "And you are mine."

He then kissed her from lips to shoulders to breasts, lavishing attention on each until her nipples were hard and her hips were lifting, and then indulged himself in a bit of Orlesian kissing until she shuddered her climax. When she was positively sodden and languid in the afterglow, he practically ripped off his clothes, Sinead watching him with a dreamy smile on her lips. "Truly, the _Darach na Ríthe_ is in this room," she observed, cheeks a little red, as his erection was revealed.

"The Oak of Kings? Now you flatter me," he replied with a broad grin at the implied compliment. "Are you ready?"

She bit her lip and nodded. Teagan held his breath and hilted himself between her open thighs, pushing past that bit of resistance and wiping the tears that sprang in her eyes with his thumbs.

"It is done," he assured her, swallowing a groan at the feel of her around him. "May I?"

"Yes!"

Teagan set himself a steady pace, determined to make this last as long as he could, and soon it was Sinead begging him to go faster in a high, needy voice he determined to drag out from her as often as possible. He should have known when he first met her they'd marry; Maric himself had suggested the match shortly before he left for Wycombe. Perhaps his brother-in-law had seen more than the Houndmaster himself.

"We will come through this Blight, _a stór_, and Ferelden will be strong," he promised. "And when it is done, you and I will return to Rainesferre, have a dozen children, and rule our bannorn the best we can."

"I know," she responded, her heart in her eyes. "I know."

He spent himself with an inelegant grunt of pleasure, silverite medallion banging against his sweaty chest as Sinead shuddered again about him. Then he lay beside her and just held her for a while, wondering about the twists and turns that had brought them to this place, and those of the path ahead.

_All will be well,_ he assured himself. _It cannot be anything else._

…

Sinead breathed a sigh of relief as the gangplank was pulled up and the ship to Kirkwall cast off. Of course she was worried for her family and everyone else, but Teagan had assured her that their mission to Kirkwall was of equal importance. History itself said that one country couldn't stand alone against the darkspawn horde; it also said that Orlesians invited into the country had a hard time leaving. The Free Marches would be a better source of assistance outside the Grey Wardens.

The captain of the small vessel said they had a good following wind that would likely bring them to Kirkwall in three or four days. Given that Sinead knew nothing of sailing, she'd have to take his word for it.

The sense of doom she felt still hung heavy upon her despite Teagan's assurances. She watched Highever fade into the distance as dawn lightened the sky, blue-grey clouds scudding across the southern horizon. Her hand traced the coastline, trying to memorise its shape. She was married now, and Highever hadn't been home in years, but still…

It was the lookout who spotted the smoke rising through the clouds. "Maker's breath," he yelled out. "Highever's on fire!"

The captain strode out with an expensive Rivaini spyglass in hand. "Andraste's grace," he said, raising the implement and then lowering it again. "It's Castle Cousland."

Sinead stood still as stone until the meaning of his words became clear. "What's happening? We need to turn back!"

"We're too far out, Lady Guerrin," he told her as Teagan, alerted by the shocked yelling of the mostly Highever-born crew, rushed out of their cabin. "By the time we got there, one way or another it will be all over."

"We must go back!" she screamed at him. "Please!"

Her husband wrapped his arms about her, looking at the captain. "How long would it take us to return?"

"Too long," the captain replied flatly. "There's nothing you can do about it, Bann Teagan. Ferelden needs you in Kirkwall and Teyrn Loghain's ordered me to make sure you and your lady get there."

Sinead began to weep; nay, not weep, but howl with all the desolation of Justinia by Andraste's pyre. The sense of doom she'd felt had been a warning of trouble to come. Teagan, her husband, her rock, simply held her as his eyes bored into the captain's with a cold hatred.

"Why?"

"Teyrn Loghain said that the Teyrn and Teyrna were traitors but Lady Sinead was innocent," the captain responded with a shrug. "He wouldn't make a decision like this without proof, I'm sure."

"My brother and the King were there!" Teagan spat.

"And they were due to leave with Fergus." The captain was merciless in his explanation. "The Teyrn and Arl Howe are nothing if not exact."

Sinead tried to rip herself from Teagan's arms, to claw at the bastard's face, but he was too strong. "You- you-!"

"Best get your lady in the cabin, Bann Teagan. It's a few days to Kirkwall and she'll need to be composed." The captain turned his back on them and headed towards the prow, bellowing orders to his stunned crew.

"Not now," Teagan breathed as he dragged her inside. "We need more information."

"You told me it was going to be alright!" she screamed at him, feeling betrayed. He was the Houndmaster. He should have known this. Maybe he did and had gotten her out of the way for his own purposes. "You lied!"

"Sinead-"

"You're the fucking Houndmaster! How did you not know about this?"

"Sinead-" He went to embrace her and she slapped his arm away.

"You knew, didn't you?"

_"No!"_ His response was emphatic. "I swear to you, _a stór_, I did not know."

"Bullshit!" she screamed, turning away from him. "Leave me alone, spymaster! Don't touch me again!"

_"A Stór-"_

"Don't! Leave me alone!"

In the end he obeyed, going above decks as she huddled in the corner, weeping as if her heart was shattered. Her father was right; she was bad luck. Bad luck with men, with her choices, with everything-

Had the information she shared with Teagan, trying to protect her family, destroyed them instead? She'd never know because he'd never tell her. No doubt he cared for her – the gentle Bann of Rainesferre could not pretend affection – but he'd still ruthlessly used what she'd told him because Cailan had forced her parents to carry covert messages to Celene. Who was the true Teagan – the Bann or the Houndmaster?

Sinead cried herself to sleep in the corner, barely noticing Teagan coming back into their cabin and picking her up to put her in bed. For good or for ill, she was married to the man. Until death did them part. Maker willing, she'd see her parents soon.


End file.
